


Slices of Afterlife

by ShakespeareFreak



Category: Ghost (1990)
Genre: Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Ghost (1990) Spoilers, Heaven, Hell, Meta, Metafiction, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Past Character Death, Past Tense Character Death, Redemption, Spoilers, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:34:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShakespeareFreak/pseuds/ShakespeareFreak
Summary: A series of vignettes depicting, in no particular chronological order, scenes from the lives and afterlives of Sam Wheat, Carl Bruner, Molly Jensen, and Oda Mae Brown, as they come to terms with their new reality in the wake of the events ofGhost.





	1. "Sam?"

**Author's Note:**

> Contains a _lot_ of my own personal beliefs concerning the afterlife, many of which do not mesh with any established religion's teaching, and some of which may be considered offensive. Read at your own risk.
> 
> Though some of the "Slices" (vignettes) relate to one other, or even continue a narrative, they are not in chronological order. There is a reason for this.

Sam had been expecting it for a while now, ever since he'd learned how these things worked. So when the casual hum of conversation around him died away, and one by one his newfound companions focused on a spot behind him, he wasn't really all that surprised.  
  
As his companions quietly slipped away, a voice spoke up behind him, with only the slightest hitch of hesitation: "…Sam?" Apprehension and hope warred in that one word.  
  
Sam didn't need to turn around to know exactly who that voice belonged to; once, it had been almost as familiar to his ears as Molly's and his own.  
  
Nothing could have prepared him for the rush of memories, both good and bad, that all-too-familiar voice would cause. Of course he'd _known_ this moment would come. But he'd had no idea how he was going to deal with it when it did. Now, he discovered he still didn't.  
  
Still without turning to face the voice's owner, Sam closed his eyes with a soft sigh and forced himself to say _something._

"Hello, Carl."


	2. Interlude: Time

The problem with humans and Time is, most humans perceive Time as a straight line, when actually it’s not like that at all. It’s actually more of a huge, never-ending spiral that crosses over itself a lot. But human brains aren’t equipped to handle that, so they don’t.  
  
The problem with dead humans and Time is even worse. When humans die, they move outside of Time as well as Space, so that everything—past, present, future—is all sort of happening at once. But since they’re used to understanding Time as a straight progression from Point A to Point B, they choose to look at events as if they were still in a “proper order.” Dead humans rarely realize that they are doing this, except when every once in a while they perceive an event out of sequence.  
  
Worst of all, though, would be trying to explain the exploits of dead humans—say, a couple of deceased bankers from New York City and their associates, just for example—to an audience of living humans. Because then you’d have to explain a bunch of events all happening simultaneously, but appearing to happen in a more or less linear fashion to the principal characters, in a way that somehow makes sense to those who think Time only flows one way, in order.  
  
Yeah, that’d be tricky.


	3. Photographs

Photographs on a mantle somewhere:

There’s the one in Reno, of course. Also a Polaroid that Molly took with an old camera, on a whim, during their do-it-yourself renovation of the loft she and Sam never had a chance to grow old together in. It’s blurry, and looks even blurrier because of all the dust floating in the air, but it’s the last photo of all three of them together before everything went wrong. This picture was thrown out a long time ago, because Carl was in it; but it’s there on the mantelpiece, all the same.

In another picture that was long since destroyed in the mortal realm, a college-age Carl and Molly, pre-Sam, grin at the camera, arms companionably around each other’s shoulders. They both have longer hair in it; Molly has a red hair band, and flecks of clay on her cheeks, more smeared on her nose. Carl is looking more at Molly than the camera, a touch of faint longing in his eyes. Molly, however, is flush with youth and drive and the infinite prospects of the future ahead of her, and is oblivious to anything more than friendship in the look.

In another photo, Molly and Oda Mae, both in swimsuits, are standing on a beach, squinting slightly against the sunlight, posing for the stranger who’d agreed to take their photograph. This is the first photo taken after Sam’s death that Molly is genuinely smiling in. In yet another, Oda Mae, probably age 50 or 55, is sipping coffee in Molly’s kitchen, and smiling tolerantly at Molly, who is behind the lens, excitedly experimenting with her new digital camera.

There are other photos, though, too; newer additions. They show Carl and Oda Mae, caught on candid camera, laughing at something together; they show Sam grinning and waving in swim trunks on a dock somewhere, while Molly trails her feet in the lake and Oda Mae sits in a deck chair reading under a sun umbrella; they show various combinations of Sam and Molly and Carl and Oda Mae with Oda Mae’s sisters and their husbands, and her nieces and great-nieces and -nephews, who have become like family to all of them.

The very first of these newer ones was Carl’s idea: near the beginning, he’d come over with a remote camera and a tripod, and insisted on photographing the four of them together. In this photo, Sam grins easily at the camera over Molly’s shoulder, one leg casually on a chair; Oda Mae gives a small, knowing smile; Molly, next to Carl and still not entirely happy or comfortable with his presence, beams a faux-bright “Say Cheese!” grin; and Carl, behind Oda Mae, looks gawky and awkward, and both ridiculously pleased and slightly amazed that everyone actually agreed to this and he’s included. He looks so unlike the suave, successful businessman he still sometimes tries too hard to be; he looks like _Carl._

Though none of them had realized it at the time, this was in some ways the real beginning of something new and strange and wonderful, something that none of them could have anticipated, but had occurred despite all probability: a true friendship between the four of them. This picture is in the very center of the mantle, with the memories spilling out on either side, laughter and tears preserved forever on glossy pages pressed behind glass panes, into infinity.


	4. "I'm Here"

Over two decades after Sam’s death, Molly got sick. The kind of sick some people never recover from.  
  
Sam and Carl watched over her in shifts, one or both of them always there. First at home, then at the hospital. They watched as she grew thinner and paler, as her hair fell out from the chemotherapy.  
  
Oda Mae came and visited Molly almost every day, but she could hear neither of the spirits. They weren’t _ghosts_ now; their “unfinished business” was finished.  
  
Sam’s heart ached. When it was his turn to watch Molly, he’d hold her hand and kiss her forehead, whisper gentle words and recollect happy memories. She couldn’t feel his kisses, couldn’t hear his words, but he hoped that somehow, she knew.  
  
Carl’s feelings were considerably more complex. During his shifts, he at first sat still and silent, only watching her, his brow creased in contemplation. But then, one day, he broke, and the words flew out of him all at once: How much he missed her. How he wished she knew he’d truly cared for her, for Sam. How desperately sorry he was, how he’d give anything to take it all back. He repeated these things again and again, knowing she heard none of it.  
  
One night, near the end of Carl’s shift, Molly was sleeping. Oda Mae was slumped in a nearby chair, her head resting on her chest, snoring gently. Carl was half-asleep himself, his eyes almost closed, his mind drifting (he didn’t _need_ to sleep, of course, not anymore; but old habits die harder than bodies do), when Molly suddenly sat up.  
  
She looked intently around the room, as if searching for something. Then, after a long, pregnant pause, she moistened her lips and whispered hopefully, “…Sam?”  
  
Carl, who had been watching her curiously, smiled sadly and shook his head. “Sorry, Moll, it’s just–”  
  
But Molly was already shaking her head, dismissing the thought. She closed her eyes, like a person listening for some faint, faraway sound. She frowned in confusion. Then her breath caught. _“…Carl?…”  
  
_ Carl could have sworn he felt his heart leap into his throat, despite no longer possessing either throat or heart. For a beat he sat frozen in utter shock, the sheer volume of the things he wanted, _needed_ to say choking him. Then, the words came, all in a rush: “ _Yes!_ Yes, Molly, it’s me, I’m here–”  
  
But Molly was once again shaking her head, more forcefully this time, as if trying to shake the very idea from her mind. A crooked, humorless smile was on her lips. “Of course not…” she muttered under her breath. She looked upset with herself for even thinking it.  
  
Carl leapt forward. “ _No!_ No, Molly, it _is_ me, it’s me, I’m here!” He looked up to see Sam standing nearby. “Did you hear her?” he asked excitedly. “She said my name, she knows I’m here!”   
  
He turned back to Molly, smiling desperately, as if sheer denial of the situation would _make_ her hear him. “Molly, it’s me, it’s Carl, I’m _here_ …” The shrill note of pleading urgency became clearer through the forced cheerfulness in Carl’s voice. “I’m sorry, it was my fault, but I’m here _now_ , so please…” His voice cracked into a suppressed sob. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m _right here_ …” He trailed off, his head hanging hopelessly.

Sam said quietly, “It’s frustrating, isn’t it?”  
  
Carl’s eyes widened slightly. He bit his lip. After a long pause, he nodded. “…yeah…”  
  
Sam put his hand silently on Carl’s shoulder, offering a small smile. Together, they stood and watched as Molly fell back asleep.


	5. Interlude: Reality

“Reality” is a fluid—and widely misunderstood—concept.

There are infinite universes, running parallel to our own. Many of them are quite similar to ours, with any differences being caused by a small, insignificant thing, such as a coin flip coming out heads rather than tails, or _three_ -leaf clovers being considered lucky. And it is from these universes that all “creative” ideas come from.

The afterlife, unlike our world, is not separated into these dimensions, but is a sort of dimension in itself. The dead of one world will sometimes come into another, and—often unintentionally—plant ideas in people’s heads, causing them to “create” a “fictional” world.

Why? The reason is simple. The dead want to be remembered. They want their stories told. They know that every time their tale is read or seen, they regain an echo of life: that there is a kind of immortality that can be gained by living in the hearts of mortals.


	6. Pointless

Three figures sat, huddled close together, somewhere beyond time. Sam had one arm draped, almost protectively, over Carl’s shoulders. Molly leaned her head softly against his other side.

“It never should have happened, any of it,” Molly said in a hollow voice.

No one had to ask what she was talking about. Carl’s brow creased lightly, an expression of guilt there and gone in an instant. Sam merely nodded as Molly continued.

“We had lives, futures, all of us. It seems so stupid… so pointless.”

“Well, there was Oda Mae,” Sam pointed out. “I mean, if you think about it, she discovered her gift because of us. And her psychic business really thrived. She probably had a better life because of it.” He sighed. “The only person who really got anything out of all of it was Oda Mae.” 

Carl raised his eyebrows. “Well, her, and about $500 million worth of moviegoers.” He shrugged. “And the film’s producers, of course.”

Molly chuckled. “Carl, why are you such a cynic?”

Carl gave her a weary little half-grin, and she pushed him playfully.

They were silent again for a long time. Maybe years. Then Carl brightened.

“You know,” he said, “it isn’t true, that no one else got anything out of it.” The others looked at him. “I mean… you two got to say goodbye.” Sam frowned and opened his mouth to speak. Carl held up his hand: “And before you say anything, think about how many people don’t get that chance. Even ones who live full, long, normal, boring lives.” Sam opened his mouth again to protest, then shut it when he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“If you think about it,” Carl continued, “you two wouldn’t have met Oda Mae, either. And all the memories you have with her wouldn’t exist.“ Sam nodded, looking thoughtful. 

Carl went on, becoming more animated now. “And… those moviegoers. They weren’t just ticket sales; they’re people who heard our story and it… it gave them hope. It made them see their lives as _precious_ , instead of just thinking about what they don’t have.” He looked a tiny bit wistful at that. “And it made some of them believe a little more in all of this.” He waved his arms expansively, indicating their surroundings, or their state of being. “That isn’t pointless. That isn’t pointless at all. That’s kind of incredible.” That little half-grin surfaced again, brighter this time.

They were both looking at him now in surprise.

“Wow…” Sam breathed, thinking about it, about the true scope of the lives their own little world had touched.

“How’d _you_ get so smart?” Molly teased Carl.

An idle comment; easy enough for Carl to respond to with usual snark. But he didn’t. Instead, an expression of deep pain crossed his face, and he said nothing. This was a thing they didn’t talk about; not really.

_“Oh,”_ Molly whispered softly, slightly apologetically. He squeezed her shoulder, and she curled tighter up against him.

They sat, a trio of souls huddled close together, somewhere beyond time…


	7. Interlude: Time (Again)

Dead humans are outside of Time, so everything they experience is all happening at once. But since they’re used to understanding Time as a straight progression, they choose to look at events as if they were still in a “proper order.” We've been over this before.

There is, however, an exception to this. For damned souls, Time is compressed down to one single moment, but that one moment is arrested, prolonged forever. An infinity of experiencing every single wrong you’ve committed, every second of anguish you’d ever caused anyone, all at once. Your entire being frozen in an endless instant of pure agony and inescapable culpability.

There’s a reason mortals call it “eternal damnation.” It may not last forever, but it’s still an eternity.


	8. Sucker Punch

Sam and Carl had never really fought before... well, _before._ And afterward, any quarrel they might have had was always dwarfed by the enormity of what had occurred during that time. It always seemed there was nothing worth fighting over.

Until now.

Sam’s fist connected with Carl’s face—hard. Carl stumbled backward, clutching his nose. “You—you _hit_ me!” he yelped, more in shock than anything. He brought his hand away, and stared in disbelief at the red on his fingers. “And I’m _bleeding!_ I didn’t even know we could do that!”

Sam looked, if possible, even more shocked than Carl, as if he could hardly believe he’d just done that.

Carl began gingerly prodding at his face in a crude self-examination. “Ow. Ow. Ow…”

Molly stepped forward. “Stop being such a baby. Look, tilt your head down—right—and pinch it and apply pressure. Yeah, like that. Sam, get some ice.”

Sam jumped. He’d been watching in quiet shock. Molly hadn’t said two words to Carl since arriving. He forced himself to get moving and followed instructions.

When he returned, Molly had procured a first aid kit (from where, they never knew—like so much else, it just seemed to appear), and after the ice had numbed Carl’s face a bit, Molly was able to clean up enough of the blood to get a good look.

“Ouch. Well, you’re gonna have a real pretty black eye, and your nose will need a few bandages, but I don’t think anything’s broken. Now hold still.” She smeared some antibacterial ointment on a tissue, then started to clean the torn skin. Carl winced. “I said hold still!”

As Molly applied the ointment, Carl glanced at her with a rueful smile. “You’re— _ouch_ —enjoying this far too much, aren’t— _ow!_ —you?” Molly said nothing, but smiled and hummed quietly under her breath.

A few minutes later, Molly stood up and surveyed her handiwork critically. “I think that’s the best I can do.” Carl said nothing, staring at her in quiet astonishment. “What?” She grinned. “Do you want a lollipop?”

“Well, I _was_ hoping you would kiss it and make it better…” Carl drawled sardonically, raising his eyebrows. Molly’s eyes widened, and Sam took an involuntary step forward. Carl instantly realized he had gone too far. His smile melted into an almost comical look of horror, and he scrambled backward so quickly he tumbled to the ground, his hands raised defensively. “Kidding! Just kidding _please don’t hit me!”_

They were for frozen for a moment in a sort of tableau, staring at one another—Sam with one hand clenched and half-raised, Carl on the ground with his arms shielding his face—then they both started laughing at the same time. Sam looked at his raised arm in slight disbelief, as if wondering whose it was, then relaxed the fist and extended his hand to Carl, who grasped it and pulled himself up, still laughing.

The next morning, as Molly had predicted, Carl came down to the kitchen with a truly unpleasant-looking swollen face, bruised purple and black. (Which was as odd as the blood the day before, but no one realized it at the time.) Sam looked up from his breakfast and winced, then immediately tried to act as if he hadn’t. Carl caught his eye, and grinned. “You really did a number on me,” he observed, looking very cheerful about it. Sam looked half-ashamed, half-defiant, but chuckled all the same.

Oda Mae showed up and raised her eyebrows at Carl, but said nothing. When Molly entered the kitchen, Carl looked up from his cereal and greeted her, as he always did, without much hope of a response. “Morning, Moll.” He had done this every day, despite never once receiving more than a glance in return.

Molly smiled at him. “Hi, Carl.” Carl almost dropped his spoon as she busied herself pouring coffee.

As she sat down, both hands curled around her mug, Carl studied her, wondering if he should push his luck. Finally, he decided to go for it. “So… are we… good?”

The smile dropped from Molly’s face, and she met his querying eyes with a serious expression. She frowned and bit her lip, apparently in deep thought. “No,” she decided at last. “But we’re getting there.”

Carl’s face lit with relief. It was a start, a real start, and that was more than had seemed possible for so long. “Wow.” He chuckled. “Shit, if I’d known, I’d have asked Sam to slug me _ages_ ago.”

Sam grinned and called cheerfully down the table, “Anytime!”

They ate and talked, and as they did, a tentative camaraderie descended on the table. An old, deep wound healed a little bit more.


End file.
